That's Simply Squibby
by Gwidlet
Summary: Alternate Universe. Lyra is an OC. She's a squib born into the Malfoy family, seven years before Draco. She becomes an OOTP member. Lyra/Charlie in later chapters. Sounds like fan-based pile of idiocy; trust me, it's not. Please give it a chance.
1. Chapter 1

Two of the three were grieving for the loss of their daughter, while the one left was simply too young to understand the implications. The stone table supported the youngest, and her blankets did nothing to give the warmth she needed to counter the frozen surface of the table. The Malfoy family was not in, perhaps, the most presentable of states; though alive, their daughter would be… was… a squib. None of them yet knew this, but it would not be inaccurate to assume that all three thought it so, and that was why they were in the cold presence of the Dark Lord to begin with.

Nagini wrapped her body around the leg of Voldemort's chair and then around his shoulders, turning to face the one-year-old Lyra Malfoy. Nagini hissed to her master, glancing back occasionally at Lyra; the Malfoys stiffened protectively, but relaxed their shoulders when they realised the Dark Lord's gaze. There was little consideration for the idea of Lyra becoming Nagini's dinner in his mind, for he needed the Malfoys; he could use this 'love' for their daughter. The daughter would be useful in the future.

"Come, Lucius; Narcissa." He spoke coldly, though perhaps he thought it warm, or comforting. This was the warmest Voldemort might have ever been, for he knew the need to convince more of noble stock to join his cause permanently. One of filthy blood's life in exchange for two loyal Death Eaters for his army; it was a fair exchange, and he was determined to make it. He spoke again, "You must not mourn the loss of your daughter's powers. You must take it as a lesson; you were weak, and let down your guard. A muggle, worse than a mudblood, has taken young Malfoy's powers, and she must now suffer for it. As parents, you surely should have known better than to let one of filthy origin, one that is not near the same level of her being, near your daughter. And a muggle has outsmarted you; a muggle has seized the moment, Lucius."

Naricissa protectively lifted Lyra from the table, though looked at her in disgust. This emotion, however, was overwhelmed by guilt, and she soon hung her head in acknowledgement of her mistake. Lucius cautiously wrapped his closest arm around his wife's shoulders, but did not make any sound for fear of provoking his master. He retracted his arm quickly and stood just as fast, going to stand on the other side of his wife's chair. The Dark Lord watched the family seen with cold eyes, distasteful. He stroked Nagini gently and flicked his wand; the little light there had been in the room extinguished, leaving them all in darkness. His voice spoke from the other side of the room, high and cold as usual.

"You must take this as a lesson, Lucius. Let Narcissa know her error, for the child was in her possession when your suspicion came. Remember that you do not know that young Malfoy here is worthless as of yet; she might show some magical qualities, and she _is _of pure blood. She may be 'late', as they say. But let it serve as a warning, Lucius. Do not rest until your next child has shown his power. Don't let a mere muggle outsmart you again, Lucius. I trust that you shall not, Lucius?"

"No, my Lord." The first time any of the Malfoys had spoken in this visit marked the obedience of them all to the Dark Lord's command. The person in question smiled ever so slightly in satisfaction, and the dark of the room covered the distortion of the face not made to express happiness. He pressed his long, white fingers together and let Nagini stretch herself to her full length across the table, hissing dangerously as she went, still sniffing for the scent of the child. He spoke again in the same high, controlling voice, "Narcissa. I trust you will not fail whatever more of noble stock you might produce. Their powers are in your hands; leave them to rot in a room filled with filth, and they will do. Am I understood?" He spoke to the general darkness, unsure where Narcissa was but not caring to admit his weakness for the need of sight.

"Yes, my Lord." Came a reply from somewhere towards the door. The Dark Lord closed his eyes and chuckled, a revolting sound that ripped from his lips and woke the golden-haired child, whom began to cry. He narrowed his eyes in agitation.

"Nagini does seem rather hungry tonight, Lucius. It would certainly be a shame if someone as worthless as your daughter would fall in the way of her during her hunt. Be advised, Lucius; Naricissa. I'll be sure to check on your activities. Fine days." He pushed back from his chair, purposely making a lot of noise; he slid a hand over Nagini's head and snuck behind the Malfoy family to let the door gently click shut behind them just as they stepped onto the pavement.

The Dark Lord turned back and paced to the table, falling into a chair. He flicked his wand, muttered, and the candles relit; the flames came alight as though glad to be back.

"_Incendio," _he muttered again, bored with the silence. The tip of his wand was pointed at nowhere in particular, and the carpet caught fire, flames licking up the polystyrene threads and sending almost-toxic fumes into the air.

He cleared the air around himself and Nagini with another flick, boredly studying his wand. It was thirteen and a half inches, made of yew; a single feather of a phoenix resided in its core. Many times he had pondered where the feather had come from, and a few he had made the decision to discover. Most times, however, his plan had fallen back, him dismissing it as irrelevant and childish. The wand had never failed him, and never would.

He extinguished the fire and stood up, deciding to call a certain man who already served his master with undoubtable loyalty, Severus Snape. Voldemort had been curious as to what Dumbledore was planning within the walls of Hogwarts, and was not so foolish as to think that there was no opposing force rising against him, the man who had seized power when he had the chance.

**Author's Notes:**

1057 words, written for "Raped By The Man" from Gaia Online. Oh yes, I did just write fanfiction on request and yes, it does have an OC in it. But I like Lyra. She's not set to specific guidelines, so I can make her myself, but there's the base so I don't have to decide on what that is and get distracted. You people really don't care, do you?

My best of hopes you people like it. Please review, even though I severely doubt you will. My last HP fanfiction kinda failed and thus got no reviews for almost a year.

Have a nice day.

To be continued. Not the Author's Notes, but the fanfiction.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy had turned four years old only a month and one week ago, and his age meant he understood perfectly well the implications of Lyra's eleventh birthday. There could be no doubt that Draco loved his sister, for she was his older sister, and the 'most kindest sissy in the world'. But on her eleventh birthday, he looked just a little bit further down on his sister. He knew what it meant.

The day had started out as most other birthdays of Lyra; the family all rose long before the daily owl with the news arrived, hoping to prepare everything before she awoke. Unfortunately, they were closely followed by Lyra herself. Lyra was quite excited for her birthday, as she always was, and was especially anxious for this one, in particular. Presuming that the clanging and thumps of people walking around meant it was time to get up – _at last –, _it was almost family tradition for her to get up at 5:30, the same time as her parents, and help them prepare for her very own birthday, not able to get to sleep. Of course, there were still the occasional things that her parents refused to let her touch in assistance – for example, they refused to let her 'help' wrap up her presents, which she no doubt would love to have a peek at before morning truly started and the brown barn-owl came to the door with a copy of _The Daily Prophet _firmly attached to its leg.

If a wizarding family would glance at the young, eager witch, however, they would notice something about her actions as she assisted in cooking breakfast, and setting the table. Her parents unsheathed their blades – or rather, their wands – for every task that they did not fancy, in particular, performing. Dissimilarly, Lyra, teetering on the edge of unhappiness every time she had to do something she knew her parents could have done without a bother, always performed the tasks laboriously, taking it upon herself to lift and to pull and to tug instead of simply calling on her parents to set something in place with their wands. If a wizarding family were to look, they would realise that something was either very wrong, or unfortunate, or something that was certainly _off_, about Lyra.

Dobby the Unfree House-elf had been ordered to the doorstep, where he would wait. And with his filthy pillowcase tied roughly around his light, short form, Dobby waited. Normally, Dobby would be setting the table and making breakfast himself, long before dawn, and so sitting on a doorstep did not seem quite so bad to Dobby. "Dobby is very bad," Dobby said to himself, "Dobby is letting Dobby's masters set up the house, is Dobby." But Dobby waited as he was told, because Dobby, despite very much disliking the family he served, had heard things, and knew what today meant. And Dobby did rather like Lyra, because Lyra made a point of stopping Dobby when he was punishing himself, once. Yes, Dobby decided, he rather did like Lyra Malfoy. She was an odd wizard indeed, but she was very kind to Dobby, when she was raised to treat him as an unpleasant occurrence.

The first owl came right up to Dobby. Its grey wings let it soar, and it almost floated down gently next to him. To its left leg was tied various pieces of paper, made of heavy parchment, and scribbled upon by some old witch or wizard bearing a quill dipped in bright green ink. Apparently, this witch or wizard didn't feel like leaving the Wizard Crossword section undone before sending _The Daily Prophet _on its way to Malfoy Manor. This owl and Dobby had become rather friendly to each other; though there was no doubt that Dobby must still hand over a knut in return for the paper, the owl always made sure not to hurt Dobby as it landed. This was more than what his masters did for him, so Dobby had begun to feed the owls pieces of toast he risked his skin making before his masters got out of bed.

The owl waited patiently for Dobby to add his own knut to the small pouch of bronze coins. It then proceeded to wait some more.

"No, Dobby is not having toast for Mr. Owl today, Sir." Dobby tried to shoo the owl away. The owl squawked in protest and nipped at one of Dobby's flailing fingers, as if expecting it to be toast, or maybe simply wanting to punish him for scaring it. Whatever its reasoning, the beast's beak did rather hurt, and Dobby pulled away his hands in alarm.

"You are a bad owl, sir. Yes you is." Dobby told it harshly, his bat-like ears flapping as he nodded, trying to show the owl it was wrong. This pitiable conversation between a very stubborn owl and a house-elf that was getting more and more aggravated continued for some time.

Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy, the last Malfoy to still be sleeping, rose from his bed. He cast around vaguely in his mind, knowing that something important was happening today, and thinking that he should really remember. The clatter of cutlery set his memories in motion and he ran out to the kitchen. This room was very unfamiliar to him, but he knew it was next to the dining room, because it had been yesterday, when the servant and brought out the food. And if it was like that yesterday, then it had to be like it today. He ran in and looked for Lyra.

It's an odd thing, to have a four-year-old boy making aeroplane noises and jumping right into your lap right after you sit down. However, Lyra found herself hugging her little brother, and him hugging her, just after she finished pulling the velvety tablecloth over the oak table.

"Don't go, Lyraaaa." Draco begged her, knowing that today she would get her letter, and she'd have to go. For how long, he did not know, because he didn't know how long Hogwarts lasted, but he did know that it was a _very _long time. And when time passed without The Most Kindest Sissy In the World – as he dubbed her -, every clock seemed to be enchanted to go too slow. However long it was, he had decided last night, it was far, _far _too long.

"Dracky. You know I have to." She uses the voice she's only ever used with Draco before, a voice that's just a notch higher than her usual one and is laced with patience and reasoning. Or at least, she liked to think so. When Draco had been born, when she was seven years old, she had fallen in love with the way his little hand had clamped around her finger. She had loved the way he giggled when she tickled him and his burbling laughter had filled her heart with love. Lyra was not at all looking forward to Hogwarts, if she were to be completely honest with herself. Frankly, the sorting seemed too haunting to be fun, and to be without her baby brother would be the worst of all. If someone were to look into Lyra's mind, they might wonder if she was really a squib, or if she just didn't like magic to begin with.

Her baby brother, in question, crossed his arms stubbornly and made a face that was remarkably cute.

"Don't wanna." He hugged her again, rather suddenly, and then retreated into a corner where he could sob over the loss of his sister, chanting, "Stupid school. Stealing sissy."

Though Lyra knew that her brother was not a fan of alliteration and, indeed, probably hadn't the slightest idea what it was, she still found his alliterate sentiments touching.

"Draco Malfoy. You are a silly little boy." She needed to persuade him somehow. Though Lyra didn't technically believe that Draco was a little boy anymore, it wasn't her objective to be entirely truthful; it was to get him to believe her going was for the best.

"Am not! I'm a big boy! Mummy says so!" Draco defended himself against being little by referring to his mother, and thinking this settled the matter, turned back into the wall to be sad all on his own. Of course, Draco tried to defend himself on the fateful day, as most little boys of his age tend to do. In Draco's mind, no doubt, fighting a dragon did not seem too far out of his abilities, because of all the praise he received for the simplest of magic, from his parents and Lyra, and even the slave. Or Dobby, as Lyra would have him say.

This argument was a regular one in the Malfoy Manor, because Lyra and Draco were the best of friends, really. Draco did not want to lose his older sister, the girl who could make all of the boys that were being mean to him scatter, or his best friend, the girl who could convince his parents into letting him go to the playground with the other children even though they were scared that the children would do something to him. It ended, as usual, with Draco repeating, "Don't wanna."

Many, many times.

He was possibly hoping that this phrase would get him out of anything, like giving up his sister to a stupid, scarlet train to take her to a stupid, sorrowful school.

It was certainly unusual that the house-elf had not returned by midnight from the very front of there household. More so, it was unusual that there was no word from him, even though he had specific orders to give word when the letter on heavy parchment bearing the Hogwart's crest arrived. However, there was one remarkably unusual thing that occurred that day, and it confirmed some of the Malfoy's worst fears.

The thing that was most unusual about this birthday was that the expected letter did not come.

Lyra Malfoy was, without a single doubt, and no redeemable excuses, a squib.

For four years now, Severus Snape had been a professor at Hogwarts. Snape did not enjoy his work, nor appreciate his position in the school. The only thing that truly mattered to him was surviving long enough in his torturous job to see the boy. The boy who had Lily's eyes. Lily. Lily Potter. No, that wasn't right; that was not who he fell in love with. He loved the girl who lived just down the road, who made the flower bud and bloom. He loved Lily Evans, and Lily Evans had, perhaps, loved him, but Lily Potter certainly had not. Lily Potter had never thought of him again, with that arrogant man by her side.

Snape sincerely hoped that her boy would look like her. But even if the boy didn't, Snape hoped that he would, at least, have her eyes. The bright green eyes full of life, and hope, and happiness. The green eyes that had made him trust her, the filthy mudblood from down the lane, to begin with; the ones that had made him love her. He was feeding information to the darkest wizard of, perhaps, all time, in name of her. For four years. He had traded this service for her safety, and her safety had not been returned. But he found that, if just her boy survived, if just the bright green hue of her eyes survived, he would happily trade his service to Albus Dumbledore. And that was as he was doing.

He sat pondering this in his office, his eyes closed and his head leaning without purpose against his hands.

"Seven more years," he told himself.

"Seven more years, and I shall see her eyes. Seven more years of danger and torture if I make a slip in occlumens." He repeated.

"Seven more years until Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts."

**Author's Notes:**

1, 983 words.

I completely forgot about the existence of this fanfiction, to tell you the absolute truth. And I'm really sorry about the lengthy wait for an update. However, wooh! Did you SEE that movie? I know I'm in Australia and it comes out tomorrow in America, but… _Wow._ It was the last Harry Potter movie, and I can't believe it! I grew up with that! It's like, "Noo! MY TOY!"

Nonetheless, ignoring that…

…I decided to brush past Lyra's history, because it's not the important part of the story. I'll be taking what I think are important events and putting them into words.

And also, I'm sorry I had to say Dobby the Unfree Elf. I'll wash my mouth out with soap. But I had to include him in the story.

To be continued. (Again, not the Author's Notes, but the fanfiction.)


	3. Chapter 3

Lyra did not know much of the Dark Lord's demise. She had been seven at the time, too young to understand what the term 'death' truly meant, and too protected by her parents' allegiance to such a wizard to feel threatened. At eighteen years of age, and about to enter Muggle university (fully paid for in advance, of course, by her parents), it was brought to her attention that the young boy that had brought around her parents' Lord's demise to begin with was about to attend Hogwarts. This wouldn't have greatly concerned her, had her brother not, coincidentally, been beginning at the same year. Since he was, however, Lyra had been sitting up in bed, slowly going over the knowledge that a boy whom, at the age of one, destroyed the most powerful dark wizard – possibly forever – would be attending the same school as Draco. The same one as little Dracky, whose parents had followed that wizard. Would he be safe? Lyra was certain he would be, but the lingering doubt that remained with each reassured thought was what kept her up that night.

"Is Lyra Malfoy needing something, Miss?" a high-pitched squeak filled the room, and Lyra shushed the house-elf automatically, despite the fact that the manor was simply too large to worry about waking someone up with noise. She looked around her room, cautiously scanning over her rows of books until two orbs of green startled her into almost-shouting. She clambered out of bed, but not without dignity, and approached the house-elf. "Dobby," She muttered. She affectionately shook her head at him, and he mimicked the gesture, books falling from their shelves as he knocked them with his pencil-like nose. Lyra took his little hand and guided him to her bed, where she sat, and he nervously followed suit. The bed was squishy and was not made for sitting on, but they made use of it for that purpose, nonetheless.

"I'm fine, Dobby. I only needed to finish some maths," Lyra lied to placate the elf, who was looking adoringly at his only half-way decent master.

"Miss Lyra is knowing Dobby is missing Lyra when Miss is going to schools, yes?" The young house-elf advised, and leaned back slightly, perhaps realising that Lyra did not enjoy having an elf huddled so close to her.

Lyra gently shook her head, knowing that Dobby was trying to help, but not at all helped. She half-considered ordering Dobby away, but instead wrapped her arms around the small form, making sure that he knew he was loved… By her, at least.

"Dobby, you mustn't be sad while I'm away. You must take good care of Mother and Father, and you must remind them to write to me every week. Be a good elf, Dobby." She instructed, carefully watching the globe-like green eyes that shone in the darkness. Dobby bowed so low that his long pencil-nose touched the blankets.

"Yes, miss! Dobby is doing exactly as Miss is wanting!" The nervous young elf squeaked good-naturedly, wrapping his thin, spaghetti-like arms around Lyra and pulling her into a comforting hug. Lyra smiled and allowed this small incidence of having a house elf touch her; after all, who was to know that the famous, pure-blood Lyra Malfoy touched an elf? Instead of wasting more time attempting to sleep, the household stirred into activity well before the sun crested over the mountains; they reasoned, of course, that if they had really wanted it, sleep would have _certainly _given itself up to the _purebloods. _

They went about their daily activities, not daring to mention the impending doom of September the 1st, nor the unavoidable date that Lyra would leave for University on. Instead, the Malfoys allowed their feeble house-elf to attend to their needs, troubles and concerns. Dobby found this troubling, because he oft had time to attend to his punishments after completing his ordinary duties: today, this was not going to be the case.

Severus Snape had been teaching at Hogwarts for almost ten years. From the day Lily's body was cradled in his arms, lifeless, he had committed himself to the Path of Light; that is, he had agreed to become a traitor to Voldemort. This hadn't been too bad for him, if he was completely honest; the need for risking his neck hadn't come up all that often, due to the fall of the Dark Lord. No, what was really bothering him, that day, was that there were precisely seven days before he returned to his post as a Hogwarts professor. This wouldn't bother him, much, either, but this marked ten years after Lily Evans – for he refused to say _Potter – _had died.

Which, of course, meant that the boy would be coming to Hogwarts. Snape couldn't have helped his fantasising, in his free time (this meant, of course, whatever time he could snag) about Harry Potter. Harry might, he reasoned, have the same bright green eyes, the same soft orange hair. He didn't have much hope for Harry's appearance, but he had been told Harry had _her _eyes. He fantasised about the green eyes looking at him, one more time: not with utmost hate, that told him he was despised, but with indifference; perhaps, even, happiness.

Snape folded up his copy of _The Daily Telegraph, _not caring for its loud and boisterous words or announcements. The Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was left smiling serenely at the ceiling, the top of his bowler hat (turning nervously in his hands) only just visible before the fold of the paper concealed it from view. The greasy-haired man stood and began to pace around the fire, his robes circling around him. A trunk strewn with odd devices – that is, for a muggle – and bags of dried newts, frogs' legs and other potion-maker necessities lay forgotten in a corner of the room. A couple of paintings felt the need to 'tut' whenever they lay eyes on it, thinking that a Snape would know better than to leave his or her packing until the last moment.

There was a great deal of surprise – or, rather, _What is _he _doing here? _– when Albus Dumbledore's serene, calm face appeared in Snape's fireplace. Snape obligingly sat down to be eye-level with the headmaster, but did not attempt to greet him. He straightened his robes self-consciously and didn't look at the elder man's face, suspecting why he had come.

"Severus, Harry Potter will be arriving at Hogwarts on the first." Dumbledore didn't see the necessity in putting it gently; he had come to check on the fellow, because of Lily Potter's daughter. The conversation played out a little coldly on Snape's side, as he was reluctant to show exactly how he felt, and Dumbledore was reluctant to leave before he did. Dumbledore finally committed himself to leaving, because there was not a thing he could do to influence Severus, when Snape held out a hand into the flames, tugging him back.

"Albus… I don't know what I'm going to do." He sounded like a lost schoolboy, and he hated it. He was _not _a schoolboy; he was Severus Snape, the potions master, the biased head of house, the cold and unforgiving _man_. But he was completely lost; he didn't deny it, and he swore to himself that if Dumbledore were to speak of it again, he would quit the charade altogether. Albus simply smiled at his words, and replied, in that odd manner of way that elder people tend to, that really gives no answer but leaves the person with more questions than before they asked:

"You will remember that you loved."

**A/N: **I swear I'll start writing the next chapter immediately, okay? I know it was an awfully long wait… A lot of stuff's come up that couldn't have been avoided. This chapter was lacking in quality, I admit it: I'll try my hardest on the next chapter, I swear. Please forgive me for the wait… and, well, um, that's all.

Oh, and thanks for all the lovely reviews, everyone.


	4. Chapter 4

Three weeks prior to September the first, the Malfoy children had gathered around the day's copy of _The Daily Prophet. _Draco had snatched the heavy newspaper from Dobby the House Elf's bandaged hands (the result of a punishment, no doubt) and lain it across the oak table, as was always the custom. The front page boasted a moving photograph of a Norwegian Ridgeback. It was obviously female, because of the eggs it was lashing out to protect. The wizards in the photograph tried desperately to subdue it as it set fire to anything within ten meters. If one were to look closely enough, he or she could make out the wizard in the background. His black-and-white face was stretched into an expression of horror as flames licked up his robes: other wizards were standing around him, shouting what seemed to be reassurances, all too panicked to think of casting the simple spell of _aguamenti. _Draco, the eleven-year-old, was rather pleased with this show of dramatic action, and giggles as the dragon furled and unfurled her wings, knocking aside any wizards in her path.

Lyra glanced over his shoulder: _Dragons Rebel in Romania_. She smiled one of her secretive smiles, that was always a sign of how proud she was of her little brother; Draco noticed and, of course, protested. "You wait until my father hears about this!" he exclaims, because that was what he had been taught to say when the muggles teased him for being different. Lyra laughed, "Aw, I'm sorry, _Dracky," _and continued to read over his shoulder.

_IDRAGONS REBEL IN ROMANIA:_

_A local wizard has consulted The Daily Prophet after he realised that his position, as a dragon tamer, was becoming increasingly more difficult. I, Rita Skeeter, interviewer extraordinaire, was sent to interview this young boy of only 19, and catch all the juicy details for you, the faithful readers of The Daily Prophet. The handsome young fellow, by the name of Charlie Weasley (pictured on fire below), reported, "I don't understand what's wrong with the dragons – sure, it's mating season, but they're being more rebellious than normal. I think the amount of eggs produced this season has been increased, so maybe they're more protective."_

_The dragons have, indeed, been in an uproar. "Dragons," says Charlie, in response to my questioning about his feelings in his failure to control the beasts, "Are not tamable. Making sure they don't toast muggles is the most we can do." Other wizards report similar findings in multiple countries, which leaves the public wondering when the Mass Dragon Breakout of the '90s will occur. Mr. Weasley refused to answer further questions, obviously irritated that I called out his repeated flaw in controlling the beasts. A coworker, Mr. Henry Digg, commented, "Leave us the bloody hell alone," along with other snide comments._

_This writer suspects an attempt to conceal a major error in the wizard-dragon relationship._

_To conclude, I can assure my readers that I was not hurt, despite the savage attitudes of the dragons and the unreliable efforts of a scarcely nineteen year old boy._

Lyra and Draco finished reading simultaneously, both unimpressed by the Weasley boys' efforts. Their father had told them stories of Arthur Weasley, a peculiar man that held down a small amount of work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office. This man, of course, despised Lucius and, of course, Lucius rather despised Arthur Weasley in return. Both of the latter's children deeply disliked the family of red-headed imbeciles (not that they had ever met the Weasleys) and were told to avoid anyone with red hair, freckles and hand-me-down robes. Lyra did, of course, feel rather bad for thinking so lowly of such people, but what was she to do? She certainly couldn't change her feelings.

Draco clutched his sister's hand, looking up at her with orb-like eyes. He did his best to remain cold and sullen, as his father had taught him to be, because he was superior. "Lyra," he began, "I think I would like to see the dragons in Romania for myself." So Lyra turned to her father, "Father," she said, "I think both Draco and I would rather enjoy going to Romania. Oh, can we, please? Go on, just before school starts – a final family activity!" And so it was that they unpacked their trunks, and repacked them, all ready for Romania. They tied their trunks to their broomsticks and set out for Romania, sending Dobby ahead by apparition to arrange rooms for them, the house-elf a temporary owl.

* * *

><p>Charlie Weasley didn't much expect a house elf to Apparate nigh into the nest of a Hungarian Horntail. Dobby the House-elf didn't really expect it, either. However, there he was, nesting with the eggs of a Horntail, his white, filthy pillowcase blending with the cement-coloured eggs. He briefly considered moving, but decided against it; the Horntail turned to sniff at him curiously, and opened its mouth; Dobby trembled, while the Horntail bent closer, closer, and closer. He smelt the gas building up in the back of its throat and briefly considered fleeing, but thought the fire would mean a simple, easy death. Charlie didn't pause to consider what the house elf had come for, knowing the look on the face of a dragon about to fire. His yell of "Stupefy!" echoed into the empty night and a blast of red light shot into the air, landing squarely into the eye of the dragon. She stumbled, her shot knocked squarely off target; the small amount of flame flew and landed on a tent. Wizards rushed out, raised their wands and shouted to each other, obviously dragon tamers themselves.<p>

"MOVE!" Charlie ordered, and Dobby was only too happy to obey. He scrambled out of the nest, pushing himself up on one of the eggs, trying to get out of the fire-pit that nested them. A couple of the wizards saw the elf and began shouting to the others to avoid hitting him at all costs; Dobby, he thought quietly to himself, rather agreed with this instruction. He grabbled his way out of the nest, clawing up the sides. The dragon stumbled and her foot landed a few centimeters to his left, heavy and strong enough to crush him without any effort on the dragon's part. He rolled away, hoping to get out of range. Forgetting he could Apparate, Dobby was rather terrified of the whole situation, the dragon roaring, the wind howling, the wizards shouting. Charlie darted forward, trying to get a grasp on the scruff of Dobby's neck, wanting to yank him backward. The other wizards were making no particular effort to protect just a simple house-elf, other than trying to avoid hitting him; what was his death, to them? Charlie grasped the young elf's body, frail as a leaf, and did his best to hurl him away from the dragon.

Charlie, of course, forgot that dragons don't focus on only the elves near their eggs. The dragon reared, slashing wildly with her claws in an attempt to protect her eggs; three deep gashes landed in Charlie's thigh and hip, and he felt the pain begin to claw its way up his nerves. He tried to duck the incoming thrash of her tail, perhaps because his mind was too muddled to realise that he should have instead jumped, and was knocked flat on his back. A couple of wizards rushed in to try to help, but he shouted at them to stay back. If it was do or die, it would be do or die alone. He rolled, trying to ignore the pain in his right side, where the spikes of the tail had torn away most of his clothing and ripped his flesh to hanging pieces of meat on white bone. A shot of flame passed him, and he felt the heat pass onto his face; he briefly wondered what would happen if he did die – would his family come all the way to Romania, or have him wrapped up like a mummy and sent home by owl?

A final shout of "Stupefy!" rang out into the night, all of the wizards trying at once to knock the dragon off her feet. Charlie did his best to raise his wand and murmur the same incantation, and a feeble couple of sparks fluttered down onto his robes, which almost caught fire. Dobby ran to his side and tried to tug him away from the dragon. The elf's weight could never compare to that of a full-grown wizard; Charlie opened his mouth and roared, "GET AWAY!"

So Dobby did just that, rolling out of the way in time for the dragon to fall, stunned. It missed Charlie by inches, but the rumble of the ground as it fell shook his bleeding wounds; pain shot up his side, and he knew no more.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I did promise a quick update… Again, I'm sorry for the quality. I'm not much in the mood to write today. And yes, I ended it with a cliché, and I'm really sorry for that. The last chapter hasn't had any reviews yet (wow I wonder why), but I hope this will get some. I'll start on the next chapter… Sometime soon. I was going to write more for this chapter, but… It didn't seem right. So, later.


	5. Chapter 5

The wizards had tied the dragon down, using thick ropes to loop her ankles and cut off the amount she could move. This wasn't too bad, they reasoned, because she wouldn't want to go anywhere too far from her eggs, anyway, and it was a necessary safety measure, after what happened to Charlie. The aforementioned wizard had been carried by an (invisible) stretcher into an infirmary, though there was no guarantee the doctor there could assist him; his English was very poor, and he sent snide glances at Dobby on occasion as he treated Charlie's wounds, obviously blaming the elf for the injuries. Dobby and incessantly remained by the Wheezie's side, and taken it upon himself to worry about the wizard, something that his co-workers seemed to feel unnecessary. The doctor had raised his wand and sealed Charlie's wounds without as much as a hesitation, forgetting the possibility of infection. Dobby had been the one to step in and question the wise foreign doctor's actions (which was a notable act of courage on the elf's part).

Charlie, as such, had been lying in bed, relatively well-cared for. The brown barn-owl that delivered _The Daily Prophet _each day had flown to Romania to deliver the newspaper to the elf. Dobby, in return, handed the owl a small portion of the food he had brought for himself from the house, not daring touch the Malfoys' portions, and allowed the owl an affectionate peck at his spindly fingers. The doctor had looked on in a great amount of unconcealed disapproval, staring down his squashed, fat nose at the scene. He wondered briefly about the family that would be arriving, on the house-elf's word: Would they care about his patient, and try to invade his private working space even more than the elf? Would he have to make room to accommodate a family of four (if this elf – Dobby – was correct in his counting, which the doctor refused to take for granted) in his small, cramped infirmary? The doctor hoped that the young man would soon awake so that he could hustle the man out the door.

They arrived unannounced; after the dragon tamers had decided that they would not be flying anywhere that was aggravating to the nesting dragons, the family of Malfoys was left well enough alone. Dobby was not deaf to the young Malfoys' squeals of delight as they came within sight of the dragons and rapidly packed himself up; he had been awaiting their arrival my Charlies' side. Charlie was improving rapidly, considering how deep the scratches were; this was a mark of the doctor's credibility, who was, if one were to compare the two, quite as good as a certain Poppy Pomfrey, when it came to medical expertise. After fixing his pillowcase into a more respectable position and smoothing the few hairs on the top of his head, Dobby rushed out to greet his masters and to explain what had happened the night before their arrival.

"Foolish, the Weasleys," remarked Lucius. He kicked his house-elf, spurring him along into the tent that had been set up for their arrival. "Almost as foolish as house-elves. Don't you agreed, my love?" He sneered down his long, thin nose distastefully at Dobby. His wife audibly inhaled, waiting for the scent of food to greet her; when nothing came, she harshly slapped Dobby across the face, having expected breakfast fresh and ready waiting for her. Dobby bowed low in apology, still clambering to his feet after the multiple blows. Narcissa's face was scrunched up as if something unpleasant had landed right under her nose and Dobby's appearance in that exact space obviously did not suit her fancy. The family of four – and, if one were to be generous, Dobby, too – stumbled into the tent; they took a moment to readjust to their surroundings, for the inside of the tent expanded far beyond what the outside showed as possible, and then continued on their own separate ways. Dobby rushed off towards the kitchen, while the remainders in the living room headed for the dining room; Dobby had already set the silverware out and the knives and forks glimmered in the firelight.

Lyra was the only one to give the Weasley boy another bit of thought; she did not like to dismiss people merely on their heritage. Though, she thought to herself, she rather ought to be cautious of the young man, for he mightn't be too friendly to her; she felt quite certain that, if her parents' prejudices had spread to Draco and her, then there could be no doubt of them spreading from Arthur Weasley to the latest Weasley generation. Lyra rather liked Dobby, she had decided, because the house elf had always taken good care of her and her family; because of this admittance of shallow liking for Dobby, she admitted that she felt rather glad that Charlie Weasley had thought to save him. However unfortunate it was that she had to thank him, she felt obligated to show her appreciation.

Night fell rather quickly in her anticipation; the plan was set, though she wasn't quite sure how she expected such a simple plan to work. Nonetheless, she lay in bed that night, flat on her back and staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent. She could hear the light snores of Draco in the bed next to her and resisted stroking her fingers through his hair affectionately like she used to, knowing that he would probably protest, now that he was ten. God, was he really ten? Lyra couldn't quite believe that her baby brother had grown up so much; she remembered the first time she'd seen her little brother, when she was just seven. He was little and red, with some hair on his head. She suppressed a murmur of laughter at the rhyme she made subconsciously and waited for the night to progress. After waiting a considerable amount of time, she slipped out of bed; she paused only to pull some fuzzy slippers onto her feet, which she would never admit to liking or wearing once day broke.

She tiptoed toward the tent's entrance, where the swaying canvas of the tent marked the light breeze. She tried to avoid making too much noise, alert for any sign of her parents waking or her brother discovering her night trip; nothing but the sounds of sleeping people met her ears, so she continued. Cautiously, she slipped outside into the cool night air; the hard part was then over, and she walked with purpose towards the tent that Dobby had previously indicated as where Charlie Weasley had been transferred. She skirted around the resting dragons, not entirely reassured by the fence separating her from them. She straightened her clothes nervously and flattened her hair before pushing away the material and stepping into the tent. She explained her purpose, though the doctor was sleeping anyway, so she was only talking to an empty room, and settled herself next to the occupied bed.

The man that rested there was undoubtedly a Weasley; he was the spitting image of the description of the very people she had been told, since birth, to avoid. Fiery red hair, freckles, and hand-me-down robes; all of the symptoms of Weasley Disease were certainly there. So much so, she almost failed to believe that such a man could have really saved Dobby, or could really have a decent bone in his body. Of course, if any of the Weasleys were to look at her, they would have thought quite the same, but about the Malfoys; she just didn't know it quite yet.

* * *

><p>Charlies' consciousness came back rather slowly. At first, he thought he was hallucinating, because he certainly couldn't be alive, after all that had happened; then, he was convinced that he must be in the afterlife. In actuality, however, he was quite alive. So he opened his eyes, greeted by the tent's ceiling. He wasn't quite sure who he expected to be by his sickbed – his mother, father, sister, brothers – but he did know that he did not expect who <em>was <em>there. Quite, the person that _was _there was exactly who he did not expect. If he was going to name one of the families he was sure nobody concerned for his wellbeing would come from, it would be the Malfoys. So, examining the lady beside him, he felt quite certain that he was mistaken, even though she was almost an exact copy of her mother.

Charlie had met neither Lucius nor Narcissa on many occasions; on each occasion, however, he was certain he disliked the Malfoys more and more. He could never fathom why Narcissa's nose always seemed scrunched up like there was something unpleasant about that she had the misfortune to step in, nor how Lucius quite got his hair so slick without using some of the muggle product his father called 'gel'. For a moment when he saw Lyra, he felt certain he was looking at a younger version of Narcissa, and perhaps had fallen into a Pensieve. She looked exactly like her mother – except her eyes. She had her father's eyes.

When Charlie sat up, she dropped her book, her face burning red with shame. She obviously didn't intend to be caught there, and didn't know exactly what to do, now that she had. Charlie, perhaps the politer of the two young adults, held out his hand and cleared his throat, feeling more confident now that he knew where he was. Lyra did not take it, suddenly sure she should act like she was taught to act; like she was above the Weasleys' level. And, she told herself, she certainly _was. _She took his hand and shook it, very briefly. Charlie forced a slight smile and sat up properly, taking care not to move his leg too much in case it hadn't properly been fixed. He crossed his legs and waited, because a Malfoy – because he was now very sure that the girl in front of him was a Malfoy – would not visit a Weasley without a purpose. It was unheard of.

"Th… Thank you. For, um, rescuing Dobby." This wasn't at all how Lyra intended the thanks to come out. Instead of high-and-mighty, she felt lowly and pathetic. She didn't like it, but didn't know how to fix it, because she certainly didn't feel like she was above this person; he was simply another wizard, of about her age, that had fiery red hair, freckles and hand-me-down robes. She didn't feel anything, in particular, though she knew she came from a high society and ought to be acting as such. Charlie was very surprised, to say the least; it took a lot of effort to prevent his jaw from dropping open and, admittedly, it did fall open for a while. He closed it with a sharp _snap _when he decided that there was no chance of an underlying insult in her words, though he couldn't recall the last time he'd exchanged words with a Malfoy without also exchanging insults. He nodded once, acknowledging the thanks, and cleared his throat once more, feeling it necessary to introduce himself.

"The name's Charlie, Charlie Weasley. What's yours?" He went for a casual effect, at the time, because he couldn't think what to do otherwise. Charlie was very uncertain about the situation; he felt like he was treading on a minefield; with one step, the feeling of inexplicable euphoria, while one more could mean death. Lyra returned the smile, feeling similarly uncertain, and brushed some hair out of her eyes, looking for something to do with her hands. They felt surprisingly empty, and she wished she had something to fiddle with.

"L – Lyra. Lyra Malfoy." The aforementioned person was rather nervous. She'd said her thanks, she reasoned, and she didn't have any obligation to stay anymore. She stood, feeling Charlie's eyes rise with her, watching her every move. "I – um... 'Bye." She smiled very slightly, and then, quite simply, ran.

The running didn't really get her anywhere impressive but back into her bed in the tent. Her legs hurt from running all the way back and Draco's snoring had ceased, to a point where Lyra was certain he was a wake; which meant he knew about her night escapade. She pulled the covers tighter around herself, listening to the birds begin to chirp as morning light broke the darkness, and wondered if Dobby knew she had left. Dobby didn't tend to sleep very often, she reasoned, since he didn't seem to be sleeping whenever she was up, be it the middle of the night or otherwise. She blew out the flame of the lantern she had used to light her way, watching the flame flicker and die.

As if the days were as easy to blow away, they passed without incidence, to a point where both Draco and Lyra were pining for home because of the unexciting, inexplicable calm of the dragons. On occasion, they saw a shell break and the baby dragons take their first breath of life, and on one incidence, Draco's robes almost caught fire, but other than that, nothing of great interest really happened. The tamers weren't allowing the family anywhere near the female dragons; the tamers were not tour guides and refused to act as such. Instead, they simply tolerated the Malfoys' presence as they worked, keeping them from harm but otherwise ignoring them.

This left Lyra quite a long while to wonder about the man with red hair. He had started work again, she knew, because he had been the one shouting orders about stunning spells and actions to his teammates, always standing out because of his loud voice and louder hair. She wondered if he wondered about her, in return, because more than once she had caught him staring, if only out of the corner of his eye, at her. So it was, when she and her family left sometime later, she picked up a quill.

_For the so-named "__Charlie, Charlie Weasley". _

_I'm not sure why I felt compelled to write to you. I suppose I didn't very well introduce myself, so perhaps it's to do that. My name is Lyra, Lyra Malfoy. Our families have their feuds, and I am sure you think little of me – if I am to be honest, I have been brought up to think little of you. I am rather a fan of Dobby – the house-elf's – company, though, and it was kind of you to risk yourself to save him. So, I must really express my thanks. _

_Thank you. I didn't know that someone from your bloodline could be half-decent. I'm not just thanking you for saving a house-elf that I really seem to care far too much about. I'm thanking you for proving to me that my parents aren't always right about someone, and that you can't judge a book by its cover – or a person by their actions, or bloodline, or abilities. The last one significantly. _

_So, I am in your debt. If there's something I could do for you, one day, don't hesitate to ask. You've given me faith in myself, which sounds cheesy, so maybe I'll stop writing now and send it away. _

_Lyra._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

2,542 words long. I know, it's twice as long as my usual length, but I didn't think I could really resolve the chapter in less. I kind of forced that ending in so as to publish sooner. Don't complain, you got a longer chapter a lot sooner than I've usually been updating… It's not worth complaining about! Right?

I wasn't sure how to do Charlie and Lyra's meeting. I mean, they're meant to be mortal enemies, yet still, somehow, Lyra is meant to give him a chance. I'm not sure about the letter, either. I think I hate the whole chapter… However, here we are. Published and all. I dislike it, so if the reviews are all bad, I will delete it – and the last chapter – and rewrite their meeting. I think it's because I'm a masochist that I had them meet this way, in the first place…

Well, anyway. Hi, bye. Enjoy.


	6. Chapter 6

Lyra's arrival at college was hectic. The few girls she would be sharing a room with immediately rejected her, calling her a weirdo. Draco sent an owl the same day to tell her how his first few days at his new school were going – it had been Lyra's unfortunate mistake to allow the girls to see the word "Hogwarts". She spent the rest of the day denying that her little brother was in Scotland for private surgery to remove an unfortunate infection from a large pig. The other girls had grown used to the occasional owl pecking at the window, perhaps assuming Lyra's family worked in owl-training. So when Charlie's letter came, it didn't cause the same fuss that one might think it would have – the few people there to witness her eating her breakfast merely sighed in unison and turned back to their muddled-up timetables and pages of crossed-out words meant to be called Homework.

She didn't expect a reply; after a week or so without a response, she figured that Charlie did not wish to associate himself with someone like her. This was okay, she decided, because she didn't particularly want to be seen writing letters to a flaming red-head, anyway. She hid a seed of disappointment from herself. She did not take the time to consider how long it would take for an owl to reach Charlie in Romania and then travel all the way back. The owl she sent fluttered down to her side, waiting patiently for her to untie the piece of string that attached the heavy parchment to its leg. Her first surprise was that it was sent by Return Owl; Charlie definitely replied as soon as possible, she decided, as she flattened the scrolled parchment.

_For the so-named "Lyra, Lyra Malfoy", _

Lyra smiled at the introduction, wondering how she could have possibly been so cold at the very start of a letter. Charlie, she realised, was _teasing_ her. She sniffed importantly; how dare a blood-traitor do that to _her_? She wasn't all that offended, if she was honest with herself, but she was raised to be indignant, and she would try to please her parents. She always tried her best, it just never really worked. They seemed to think her unmagical status demeaning.

_I must say, I was rather surprised to see that a letter from you had found its way to me. At first, I thought that you'd sent it to the wrong person, subconsciously picking my name out of your mind, or something. _

_If you're interested, I've made a full recovery, and I've already begun to tame the fiery creatures again. Funny, but my family seems to have overlooked the fact I was nearly crushed to death by a bloody great dragon. My brother, Ronald, sent me a letter that arrived quite on the same day as yours – apparently, a friend of his has an illegal Norwegian Ridgeback that said friend is sheltering in his hut. I really don't know what's got into that man, I told him when I left Hogwarts – I told him, I did – that he mustn't seek a beast unto himself. They're not actually tameable, you know. Ah, but I'm wandering off subject here – hang on, I'll check the letter you sent me. Ah, yes, __that's__ what the original subject was. _

_Dobby? What a peculiar name for a house-elf. Well, there's not that much need to thank me – I mean, I couldn't very well just leave 'im, now, could I? I'm surprised you care at all for him. I know a lot of purebloods seem to think they're above their slaves. He was a funny type of house-elf, wasn't he? He almost seemed to be fond of me… Almost seemed to make me fond of him. _

_My bloodline is __full __of half-decent people. I think __you're__ the odd one for your family, Lyra, if it's not too much for a bloody Weasley to say. I mean, c'mon, kid. You're what, the only one that ever cared about a house-elf? Ever cared about __me__? I haven't forgotten that night you crept into my tent, just to make sure I was alright. Well, you were either doing it to make sure I was alright or to murder me. One of the two. Bloody hell, I'm rambling all over the place, aren't I? I really ought to stop that._

_Looking forward to your owl, _

_Charlie. _

Lyra folded the letter back into its heavy envelope, smiling slightly. A couple of girls that were leaning over her shoulder started laughing, "Lyra's got a _boyfriend_!" Lyra did her best not to inform them just how extraordinary their similarities to Norwegian Ridgebacks were. She pressed the parchment back into her front pocket, making a note to reply sometime or other. The owl hovered around nervously, wanting praise. In return, she fed it a bit of her toast; the owl nipped friendlily at her fingers and flew off, probably making its way to her dorm.

"It's not _staying _in our _dorm, _is it?" A girl – Xena, Lyra thought she introduced herself as – asked, nervously.

"_He _has a name, y'know. It's Jammy. And _you _ought to get over it, because Jammy is staying." Lyra sighed. So what if she had a pet owl? She'd read the rules of the Private School carefully. No cats, no dogs, no frogs, no mice, no fish.

They didn't say anything about owls.

* * *

><p>Lyra and Charlie corresponded by Owl for the rest of the year. Jammy, they decided in their letters, had definitely set the world record for the most distance travelled in a year. Charlie and Draco's letters were, at times, amazingly similar. <em>"I found a trio of trouble-makers, dropping off a dragon, the losers. I turned 'em in."<em> From Draco was quickly followed by Charlie's letter:

"_My friends collected the dragon, but Ron and his friends apparently lost a lot of house points when a trouble maker tipped off McGonagall."_

Lyra mentioned neither to the other; she thought, perhaps, that introducing Dracky and Charlie wouldn't be the best of ideas, now that she was certain the Weasleys' youngest at Hogwarts was already battling it out with the Malfoys' youngest. She made a point of changing the subject more than once in their letters, straying away from the Malfoy and Weasley feud. She was becoming increasingly tired with the amount of idiocy her parents had fed her; she learned that Charlie's father had quite the workload at the Ministry in exchange for less than a handful of Galleons each week, and that the family had seven children to support, so of course they had hand-me-down robes.

Three months into her letters with Charlie, she discovered what a Weasley Christmas was like, and she found that she envied the family of nine. Her own family very rarely celebrated Christmas, bar the presents – Charlie's family was… well, a _family_ at Christmas. She wanted to spend more time with her family on December 25th, but they told her to stay and finish off her studies for the year, not at all eager for her to visit. Dobby seemed to be the only one that really cared, sending her a heartfelt letter in place of a gift. She wanted to have a family that was full of love and support, but she was a squib. There was no place for her in a family of purebloods; she knew it, and her family knew it from the moment they discovered it.

She expressed some of these feelings to Charlie in a letter, then put lines through her words, angrily trying to blot out the tears that landed on the paper. Charlie, apparently, read these words despite the angry crosses and running ink where tears had landed, because his next letter was very short and very simple, but brought her unexpected joy:

_Lyra,_

_My parents are visiting me in Romania for Christmas. If your family isn't planning anything, it would be nice to settle some of the feud… Would you like to come? They're very nice people, my folks – they wouldn't at all mind having one more for Christmas, especially since they're leaving all of their children (bar Ginny) at Hogwarts to visit me. I'd love to see you here. You don't have to come, of course… I just thought I'd offer._

_Yours, _

_Charlie. _

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

I'm trying to avoid having a run of chapters full of letters. I know that some people like that type of fanfiction, but I also know a majority of people don't…. Myself included. So I won't be writing all of the letters out, unless the person who asked me to write this originally thinks it's a good idea.

Um… That was a bad chapter. I didn't feel much like writing and I haven't read any of JK's books for a while, so I'm unsure if this is in her style at all. Nonetheless, it is a chapter. There we are. I'll shut up now.


	7. Chapter 7

Dobby came a week before the 24th of December – the previously decided date at which he'd arrive – and explained to Lyra that, in fact, he could not have come at all, if not a week early. Fortunately, Lyra had had the forethought to pack as soon as she had arranged that Dobby take her by side-along apparition, because she knew of Dobby's peculiar habits of deliberately misinterpreting orders so that they suited his wants as well as his masters'. This packing, of course, had attracted the attention of her dorm-mates, which is why she had to pack so frequently – her friends had had the manners to throw everything and anything in her trunk around the room. They had set about littering the floor with toiletries, unused clothes (muggle and magical alike), and more. The most remarkable of these unmentioned miscellaneous items were the hundreds of slips of paper, each bearing Charlie Weasley's handwriting. There were gere because Lyra had not been able to bring herself to dispose of the parchment and ink that had brought her a friend.

This time having the idea of not apparating directly into the path of a dragon, Dobby took his squib of a master to the same tent that Charlie had spent his days recovering. The sharp _crack _as they apparated – followed by the thud of Lyra's trunk hitting the ground – woke the medic, who grumbled and muttered and ushered them out of the tent, pushing Dobby nose-first and kicking at Lyra's heels to get her moving. When they had finally been almost thrown out into Romania's bitter cold night, the medic sighed a horrible, tired, worn-out sigh, and shook his head slightly. He stumbled back to his bed, drawing the canvas tightly shut behind him, perhaps to dream of a world where people did not interrupt his sleep so rudely.

Dobby, after assuring his self that Lyra was quite fine, bowed deeply, covering his pencil-like-nose in the dust. Before Lyra could so much as thank him for risking his neck by coming out in the middle of the day to apparate her to a different country (where it was the dead of night), Dobby had Disapparated. The dust lapped feebly at where he had once been, the only thing to show that he had once been there being the footprints in the red-orange dust. Lyra felt a pang of disappointment as she examined the imprint Dobby's feet had left as he spun; almost like a child testing something new, she twisted herself, willing to disappear and appear somewhere else. Nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened, she thought, somewhat bitterly, to herself. She wasn't magical; all she did by turning on the spot was dancing, which is quite a large way different from Disapparating. She twirled again, putting out her arms to balance herself; again, nothing happened. She sat down in a huff and crossed her limbs very tightly, disappointed in herself; disappointed by the fact that she was a disappointment. While she hadn't a drop of magic in her body, if one were to look at her that moment, they might have been sure that she had transfigured herself into a very grumpy-looking mushroom. There she sat, stubbornly seething over the unfairness of it all, until a male wizard's voice – carried by the wind, no doubt – reached her ears.

This voice, she decided, had a vague sense of familiarity. Because she couldn't say "accio wizard!" and get him to come to her, she stood up and wandered in the direction of the voice. She found a man that looked slightly like Charlie Weasley did, when she had met him before, but he had several more scars and a nasty, shiny-new burn up one of his forearms. Being a dragon-keeper, realised Lyra, was not a very safe occupation. Charlie's hair was roughly the same length, hanging down around his shoulders, and his clothes were much different to what she remembered. Instead of his plain, inflammable shirt that he had to wear for work, or even a set of pajamas, Charlie was wearing a set of dress robes that looked particularly horrible, as though someone had stuffed napkins into leather and called it something to wear to a formal occasion. His hair was carefully parted – as well as one could part something that was pulled back into a ponytail. He was staring with his blue eyes at his reflection in an old and cracked mirror, nervously wringing his hands together – and did he smell like some cheap type of Muggle _after-shave? _

Charlie had not noticed Lyra's presence, so she kept entirely silent, curious as to what occasion Charlie was making this effort for. Charlie trailed a hand through his hair and cleared his throat, and blushed at himself. Much to Lyra's surprise, he started talking to his reflection, his intelligent eyes measuring each twitch of his facial features.

"Good evening, Lyra," He started. Lyra jumped violently and drew in a breath quickly, amazed that Charlie had been able to see her from where she was, hidden in the bushes and looking out at him. Charlie went on, "Oh, this? No, this is just a little something I threw on to celebrate your… No, no, no! That's wrong!" Charlie tugged at his hair frustratedly, and Lyra realised that all of the effort Charlie had gone to was for her. She felt a little ball of light in the pit of her stomach, but quickly dismissed it. Charlie paced back and forth in front of the mirror, then huffed and stood straight to look at it again.

"Good evening, ma'am. If you'd just follow…" He shook his head violently, not at all pleased by his poor efforts in preparing to meet Lyra. The young wizard had been increasingly nervous during the week leading up to when Lyra said she would arrive, because he wanted to make sure that she enjoyed her stay, as well as her Christmas. Lyra, having heard quite enough of Charlie's attempts at launching a conversation with his reflection, and seen enough of his blushing red cheeks that looked almost tanned, they were so freckled, stood up.

Charlie didn't see her, at first, still too preoccupied with gazing at his reflection vacantly, his mind occupied with thoughts about Lyra herself. Was she really what she was like in her letters? Did he really want to know the answer to that? Would she still like him, or would some trait unknown in his letters present itself and deter her? Would his family like her? Would she like his family? So many thoughts, he decided, could not be good for him. He felt that even if Lyra did not like Mister and Missus Weasley, she would treat them with respect because he _did _like them, and his parents would do quite the same with Lyra. This meant, he assured himself, that there really was no need to worry about his parents meeting Lyra. However, he wasn't nearly as sure what would happen when _he _met her for a second time.

Lyra stood, arms crossed, one hip to the side, behind Charlie. Her eyes rested on his, though he did not meet her gaze until the peculiar feeling of someone's undying stare burning into his eyes forced him to look up. For a moment, Charlie thought that he was staring into the cold and unforgiving eyes of Lucius Malfoy, but he soon realised that these eyes held a warmth that most people, at first, overlooked, and were also somewhat amused. His eyes trailed up her face, and he found himself thinking again that he was looking at someone who had been merged from younger versions of her parents – nine parts Narcissa, one part Lucius. Though, he reasoned, Lyra's mind was wildly apart from that of either of her parents – or, indeed, any of her relatives.

Determining that he was, in fact, looking at Lyra, he turned swiftly on the spot. He searched the place where he had last seen her, and was relieved to see her entirely there. He would not have been surprised if he'd only imagined her being there, because the stress he'd been feeling – combined with the heat of Romania – could have easily been getting to his head. Upon deciding that she was real, he realised that he needed to think up something to say; Lyra was merely standing there, boredly examining him with that chagrined expression that was a tell-tale sign that she was desperately clinging to the image her parents wanted her to have, though she didn't think she had it, at all.

Fortunately, Charlie was saved from having to decide which of his greetings that he had rehearsed over the past week would be the best to entertain Lyra with by Lyra herself, who decided to greet him, first.

"Good evening, Charlie," she feigned looking down at her clothes, "Oh, these? They're just something I threw on to celebrate my arrival."

Her voice, Charlie was relieved to find, was more amused than angry. His face flushed involuntarily in embarrassment and the tips of his ears noticeably turned red. He grinned half-heartedly and spread his hands out in a 'what-do-you-want-from-me' kind of way. Lyra found herself thinking that this action, she would be seeing a lot of. Charlie looked at the clothes Lyra had referenced, and decided that she was not joking when she had said she'd 'thrown' them on; they were disheveled, crooked, and the buttons of her shirt were done up oddly.

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry, I didn't realise informal was the new formal," he teased. He fumbled with the tie that he had, hours before, spent a very long time getting done up. He untied it, then slung it over his shoulder like a scarf. He ruffled his already-ruffled dress robes and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. Then he stood, mimicking Lyra's position, one hand on his hip and skeptically examining her, just as she was skeptically examining him.

Then, of course, they both laughed. They laughed until they looked like they'd stayed in the Romanian sun far too long, and until they had each turned a light shade of plum as they gasped for breath. As he laughed, Charlie decided that, even if Lyra _wasn't _how she was portrayed through her letters, she was very good at concealing it. He also made the choice that he wouldn't mind so much, if she continued to fool him, because he'd rather be fooled into thinking he'd just made a brilliant friend than fooled into thinking that there was no-one to befriend.

Lyra, in turn, decided that the stories and tales her father had raised her with were quite inaccurate, and that she shouldn't put much stock into what she had learned from home. They both approached each other, and held out their hands, silently. They shook, neither willing to break the silence. In this handshake, they both made a nonverbal agreement to start anew, family feuds set aside – because really, when those were set aside, they each found that they rather enjoyed one another's company.

* * *

><p>Lyra was to be accommodated in Charlie's tent, for she was his visitor, and she had not had the forethought (nor the room in her trunk) to bring a tent of her own. They found themselves both glad that Lyra had left her home to arrive in the dead of night in Charlie's timezone, because there were no whispers of Charlie bringing a scandalous young lady into his tent just before night fell… Well, that was, for the first day. The issue was quickly resolved when Charlie's parents (and Ginny) Apparated into Romania the next morning.<p>

Charlie had, of course, contacted his parents to let them know that he would be having a visitor for the Christmas holidays, though he hadn't told them exactly who the visitor was. Charlie walked out to greet him, after being alerted by a coworker that a family of redheads with freckles and disheveled robes had apparated unexpectedly outside his tent in the early hours of the morning, set up camp and spent the rest of their time sitting outside throwing stray sticks into their lanterns for fun. Lyra, who had slept on the ground rather than steal Charlie's bed and have him sleep there, had had the unfortunate impression that he wanted her to follow him. So Lyra trailed out after Charlie and found herself face-to-face with Arthur Weasley's wand.

"You," he said quietly, "Are not attacking my son behind his back, Narcissa."

Lyra blinked at the wand, having subconsciously raised her hands in a defensive position, because she hadn't a magical stick to defend herself with – nor, in fact, the power to make it work, at all. She stayed there, hands up and only hoping that Arthur would realise that her eyes were not the same blue as her mother's. She opened her mouth to defend herself, shivering from the cold and the shock of waking up and going outside, only to be held at wand point.

"BLOODY HELL, DAD!" Charlie roared. He took his father's wand arm and pushed it down until Arthur reluctantly changed the wand's target to the ground. Charlie, perhaps noticing that she was shivering, wrapped a muscular arm around Lyra's shoulders, gently comforting her.

"Dad," he started again, "Mum. Ginny. This is the visitor I was telling you about. It's not exactly the best of ways to meet her, sure, but it's… well. Her."

Mr. Weasley mumbled an apology, while Mrs. Weasley pulled Charlie aside, and Lyra felt saddened that his arm was no longer around her, to give her warmth. She was left unoccupied, as though everyone had forgotten her presence in the panic her presence had caused. Ginny, who was similarly forgotten, wandered over and curiously examined the person whose blood she had been raised to dislike.

Ginny was not the only one to have noticed that Lyra did not defend herself, but she did not remark on it. Nor did she remark on the fact that, in Lyra's clothing, there were no obvious signs of a concealed wand. Instead, she held out her hand a smiled at the older girl, a little bit more accepting of Lyra than anyone else in her family had been when they first met her. Ginny did not know Narcissa, though she had seen Lucius' cold, grey eyes more than once, and she knew well that Lyra was the daughter of someone her father was loathe to. However, Ginny really didn't care. She hardly ever had the opportunity to be friends with a girl, for she was raised with so many brothers, so Lyra was just another person to befriend, to her.

Lyra took Ginny's hand and shook it politely, forgetting to act as someone from high society should act. She stumbled to cover this up by sniffing and saying, in rather an important voice, "And _you _are?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and didn't release Lyra's hand.

"_I _am Ginny Weasley, the most _important _citizen of today's society, if I _do _say so, myself. And _you _are?"

Lyra laughed, "Lyra Malfoy. It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, you oh-so-important jester." She blushed, a lot more shy than she was letting on, and dropped her hand. Seeing this exchange, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley cautiously approached Lyra, and exchanged their own greetings with her. Occasionally, they threw glances at their son, as if asking if what they were doing was alright. Charlie simply smiled encouragingly, and by the time night had fallen, Mrs. Weasley had decided to treat Lyra as a second daughter, and Mr. Weasley to treat her as a friend to be cautious of.

Charlie decided that this result - all things considered - was quite a good one, indeed.

It was Molly who suggested that Lyra take up accommodation in their tent. This tent was a peculiar one that Mr. Weasley had borrowed from a friend of his, who barely ever used it anymore. Lyra had graciously accepted, because she didn't want to cause a scandal for Charlie, and also because she thought it would improve her relations with his family, somewhat. Occasionally, Molly would get up during the night to set her needles knitting and to prepare some extra sweets for the new guest that she had not prepared gifts for. In turn, Lyra set about making a separate card for each and every member of the family. She didn't know much about families and Christmas, but she figured that she didn't think it important if she did something wrong – the family she'd been granted temporary membership to would forgive her. And even though she knew near nothing about family, she knew what she wished, relentlessly, that hers was like.

So she prepared in her own special way, and the Weasleys in theirs, and they gradually got to know each other, during the few moments that Lyra and Charlie were not occupying each other—which, usually, meant Charlie's working hours, when Lyra couldn't speak to him. Sometimes, not even then. Charlie was delighted to find that Lyra's words weren't feigned, and Lyra was amazed to find that, increasingly, everything she'd been raised to believe about the Weasleys was wrong.

On occasion, she found herself wondering what was happening at home, where Draco and Mother and Father were at that very moment, but she quickly dismissed those thoughts. She was content to let her mind stray anywhere it wanted to but there. On Christmas eve, she had curled up in a blanket by the fire with a mug of hot chocolate in her hand, and her thoughts were not of how her family was, but of how it was not, and how she wished it could be everything the Weasleys were.

**A/N: **

I wanted to end this a lot, lot, lot, lot, _lot_ later on, but the word count was piling up, so I decided to end it here. It's already... according to fanfiction, 3104 words long. OTL

I'm unsure of Charlie Weasley's eye colour. I know it's either blue or brown—because of genetics—but it's undetermined. I went with blue because the person asking me to write this said they like red hair and blue eyes as a pairing, when I asked them if they knew his eye colour. Google says it doesn't know either. I don't think it's mentioned in the books. –sigh-

Yes, the tent the Weasleys are using is not unlike the one we later see in the Quidditch World Cup and the Deathly Hallows.

Also, it's a different writing style to my usual style in this story... sorry.


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